


crave your closeness

by ohwhatagloomyshow



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Emily Sim mention, F/M, Funeral Sex, my asexual children having sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 13:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3068873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohwhatagloomyshow/pseuds/ohwhatagloomyshow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His heart aches at her desperation because he knows how much easier it is to embrace a lapse of sanity than to accept what has so suddenly been lost. </p><p>(a funeral sex fic, taking place shortly after the events of S5E7 "Emily.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	crave your closeness

They take the same flight home. Scully’s spine is ramrod straight and her fingers curl into fists on her thighs; Mulder leans his seat as far back as he can and keeps his eyes very closed. The flight is eons longer than it should be.

She doesn’t need to say a word, because he can read it on every part of her body: she will not survive this night alone. It began with the abduction, with Melissa’s murder, and it continues through any case that shakes her to her core. As he follows her through the airport, he can only imagine how long she’ll need him this time before she’ll be able to get a decent night’s sleep alone. He would follow her to the end of time if she needed him.

So he follows her through Dulles, to her car, to the supermarket for a frozen pizza and a few bottles of wine. He carries the bags as she unlocks her door; the living room is unnecessarily cold and he almost trips over his own feet before she turns on a light. She catches the bags before he can drop them and she nearly laughs, but the smile leaves her face much too soon. As she preheats the oven and opens a bottle of wine he turns her heat way up.

He makes himself comfortable while she prepares their quasi-dinner; their only interaction is when she hands him a full glass of wine, and his fingertips graze hers. She keeps her back to him, mostly, with her elbows on the counter as she watches the oven timer tick down. She sips too quickly from her glass of wine until her teeth are stained pink; she jumps a little when the buzzer finally goes off.

She brings their slices of pizza over on paper plates and for a good few minutes they burn themselves as they try to eat through their jet lag. He wonders how long it’s been since her last meal, the way she shoves slice after slice into her mouth. When she finishes her first glass of wine he expects her to pour another immediately, but he’s happily impressed when she refrains and goes for water instead. 

They finish the pizza in record time and he joins her on the couch after she throws their trash away. A much smaller glass of wine rests in her hands as she leans against his chest, the top of her head against his jaw. His arm is gently around her shoulder, and he sips a bit from his own glass. 

Her voice is very quiet when she speaks for the first time in hours. “I think I dreamed it.”

“Scully, no.” It’s disturbing to hear his thoughts come out of her mouth—how many times has he said, in a weird mixture of humor and self-pity, that he feels he must have dreamed Samantha up? How many times has he confessed that to her in five years, that his memories feel faulty, only to pass it off for a laugh?

There is nothing funny about Scully’s voice, and there is nothing self-pitying, either. It is honest and it is terrified. “No, Mulder, I must have.” There is not even the hesitation of alcohol in her tone: she sits up steadily and looks him square in the eye. “Look, it makes sense. I—I learn that I’m sterile, I go to my family’s just after I’ve lost my sister, it’s—it’s almost predictable I’d fantasize something like this. And—and now I’ve got you convinced that it all actually happened. That a—“ She laughs and her hands are shaking so severely that a few drops of wine spill from her glass “—that I had a daughter as a result of a government conspiracy. It’s a coping mechanism, Mulder—I wanted a child so badly that I imagined one for myself.”

But the confidence in her tone begins to crack; her voice shakes as much as her hands and he takes the glass away before she can drop it. She can hear the lie in her own tale and it frightens her just as much as the truth does. 

“She didn’t actually suffer, Mulder—“ The tears begin to fall and he takes her to his chest, and she feels like she’s going to shake out of her body. She laughs out something like a sob. “She didn’t die because she wasn’t real, she _couldn’t_ be.”

His heart aches at her desperation because he knows how much easier it is to embrace a lapse of sanity than to accept what has so suddenly been lost. 

Her fingers clutch and make tight fists around his sweater; he does what he can to calm her by caressing the small of her back and stroking her hair. It takes several minutes but she does begin to relax; her shaking is no longer violent, and her breathing is quiet and subtle again. But when she brings up her head to look at him, it is clear that the only changes have occurred in her body, not in her mind.

“Mulder.” This is different from any other time she has said his name. It is soft and aggressive, demanding and pleading. Her fingers loosen on his sweater until she can put her palms flat against his chest; she strokes, up and down, twice. “Mulder, they have taken _so much_ from me.” Her palms find their way up his neck; her thumbs caress his chin, play at his lips. She can’t stop looking at them. “Mulder.” She tilts her head and her mouth strains as a last few tears find their way down her cheeks. “Mulder, please.” Her fingers find their way into his hair and it’s not surprising when their lips touch.

Her mouth is strong on his and it takes him a few moments to even convince himself they need to stop. It’s a strange feeling, kissing Scully—he doesn’t feel much from it, and yet this feels like the purest expression of trust they’ve shared since they’ve met. He doesn’t want to stop because kissing her is too intimate—one touch of their mouths shares more than any conversation.

But he does stop them, because he’s worried about the wine and her stability. She looks as though she understands why he breaks them apart, and she’s ready for her rebuttal immediately.

“Mulder, you’re all I have left.” She hiccups and laughs and almost cries all at once. She stands up to kick off her heels, and her hands abruptly start working on the back of her skirt. “I need you to remind me—that I’m here. I can’t have children, Mulder, and I want to have sex with you.”

He didn’t imagine having sex with Scully often, but when he did he imagined it as something sensual, organic—and this is better than he ever could have dreamed of. The way she speaks of it, demands for him in such an objective way is the least sexy thing he has ever heard, but it turns him on to no end, without explanation. Perhaps because it is so _her_. Scully is direct and abrupt and always will be, ad infinitum. Imagining her to be coy and shy is a disservice to her person. 

So he follows her into her bedroom as she strips out of her skirt, shirt, and pantyhose. He shrugs out of his pants as quickly as he can because she’s waiting for him on the bed, desperate hands and hungry mouth. 

He grabs her right ankle and she thinks it’s to help him onto the bed; she shrieks when he pulls her down to the edge, laughing as he adjusts her where he wants her. He kisses, so tenderly, up one thigh and over her pelvis and down the other, teasing along her underwear. He nips at her skin to make her gasp, and slips off her underwear when she slightly shakes with anticipation.

He doesn’t imagine having sex with Scully often, but every time he does, he imagines this part.

He licks open her lips and she moans, her thighs tightening automatically around his head. The heat of her is comforting and her taste is everything he’s ever wanted. Her opening is just growing wet and he finds her clit to suck on. He loves the feeling of it growing between his lips, and the sound of her moaning. 

As she grows and grows, his lips release her and his tongue explores every inch of her. He knows he could get lost here, and he does—lost between her thighs, lost in the sounds of her pleasure. When he returns to work on her clit his fingers explore her, and she is like a waterfall, ready for him.

She clenches a bit around his fingers and it surprises him when her hands work their way into her hair as she tries to tug him up to her mouth. She’s ready for him now, she needs him now, but he’s not ready to leave her yet—he does not know when another opportunity to taste her will come, and he wants to take advantage of it.

She concedes for a minute or two, letting herself melt into his mouth and onto his fingers. But she has never done well with patience, and the next time her fingers are in his hair they are strong and demanding; they pull him from her opening until he falls across her body. She’s quick to kiss him, to taste herself on his mouth, and he readjusts himself over her, hovering but not crushing. The fingers in his hair turn into nails that scrape their way down his neck and back; he shivers uncontrollably and she uses the distraction to wrap her legs around his hips and force her power there, encouraging him onto his back.

He’s imagined topping too many time because how could he know, how could he possibly know that Scully dominating him would be the greatest thing that could ever happen.

She undoes her bra effortlessly and his hands are quick to hold her breasts, just the perfect size to fill his palms. As he distracts himself there, she lowers herself onto him, and they can’t help but moan together, because she is lush and warm and all-encompassing. There is nothing that isn’t Scully.

She rides him quick, and hard, and fast, and grunts, “Please, please,” until she reaches her orgasm; he is not far behind, with his fingers digging deep into her hips. She’s slow to climb off, slow to collapse to his side; they breathe heavily beside each other, and when Mulder turns to see her beautiful profile he watches as she forces tears from her eyes, lips clenched between her teeth to stop her from sobbing again. 

He does all he can: he takes her hand. She squeezes, and he smiles softly. With the lights on, they sleep like this, until the night chill forces them under the covers. Their hands touch throughout the night.


End file.
